


Christmas 2014

by JantoJones



Series: UNCLE Holidays [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handful of shorts written for Christmas 2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Frozen Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The image on a Christmas card brings up the past.

Illya Kuryakin stared at the pile of envelopes in the middle of his desk. Every year, he received dozens of Christmas cards, yet he'd never sent one himself. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Christmas, he just didn't see the point in giving a card to someone he saw every day. However, he always thanked each sender in person, because he was actually glad to be included. When he'd first arrived, they simply saw him as the godless communist who didn't celebrate Christmas. Admittedly, that was true, but he soon started celebrating his own version. He may not be religious, but the idea of embracing family, friends, happiness and health were universal.

"Are you trying to open them by the power of thought alone?" asked Napoleon Solo, from the other side of their shared office.

Illya looked over to him, confused, before realising what he had said.

"I was just thinking about what Christmas means to me."

"And what have you concluded?"

"That it has been too long a day for questions that deep," the Russian replied, picking up the first envelope.

Halfway through the pile, the picture on one of the cards caused him to gasp, as an unbidden memory burst from the depths of his mind. The image was of a frosty footbridge spanning an icy river, the banks lined with snow-laden trees.

_"Illya, wait!My Papa says the bridge is too dangerous."_

_"What would your Papa know, Pashka?"_

_"He told me it will break soon, don't jump on it."_

_"You're a coward Pashka.You're a little baby, too scared to have any fun."_

"Illya, what's wrong. Illya!"

"It's nothing," the Russian replied, as he snapped back to the present. "Just a memory."

"Want to share?"

"No. Thank you. I think it's time to head home. I'm sure there's a bottle in my freezer calling my name."

"Seek, and you shall find, Tovarsich," Napoleon quipped.

"You are welcome to join me if your day is finished."

************************************************************************

Within an hour, the two agents were comfortably seated on Illya's sofa, tucking into Chinese food. The Russian had a vodka to hand, while the American had a scotch. Napoleon was somewhat pleased to note that his partner had actually put a tree up this year. He'd always used the excuse that he was hardly there to see it, so why bother.

"So, are you going to tell me about that weird reaction to a Christmas card?"

Illya studied his partner and could easily read the tenacity in his eyes. He wasn't going to stop asking, especially since alcohol was involved, so he would no doubt tell him anyway.

"When I was seven, my best friend was called Pashka. Pavel Vladimirovitch Utkin. We'd decided we had to be best friends because both of our names ended in 'kin'.

Napoleon smiled at the logic of seven year olds, but didn't say anything. It wasn't often that Illya revealed his childhood, so he wasn't about to derail his train of thought.

"One day, in the dead of winter, we went exploring through the woods," Kuryakin continued. "We'd been warned not to because there were a lot of wolves, but children consider themselves immortal. If only that had been true. About a mile from home, there was a river with a wooden bridge crossing it. The bridge was old and the winter ice was causing it to break up. That didn't stop me from jumping up and down on it. Pashka tried to warn me, but I called him a coward and shamed him into joining me. The bridge collapsed from beneath us and we both went into the water."

Illya paused to take a swig of his vodka and refill the glass. Napoleon had a feeling he knew how the rest of the tale would go, but waited for his friend to continue. It was clear from the look on his face that Illya had buried this memory deep and hadn't thought about it for a long time.

"The water was, quite literally, freezing," he went on. "Even though the cold shocked me, I was close enough to the bank to reach safety. Pashka wasn't so lucky. All I could do was watch as flow of the river took him away. They found his body two days later, seven miles downstream. I don't think his mother ever forgave me for surviving. It turned out that surviving was the first thing I could do better than anyone else."

Napoleon didn't know what to say. He could offer sympathy or condolences, but after all this time they wouldn't mean anything. He also knew that, no matter what he said, Illya would always carry the guilt of his friend's death, whether it was warranted or not.

"Thank you," he said, eventually.

"For what?" Illya asked him, confused by the words.

"For sharing your past," Solo told him.

He held up his glass. "To the memory of Pavel Vladimirovitch Utkin."

Illya smiled and raised his own glass. "To Pashka."


	2. The Night Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya's surveillance of the house belonging to a high ranking THRUSH official doesn't go as planned.

There were many things Illya Kuryakin could have been doing on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. He could have been in a jazz club, or at home reading a scientific journal, or even doing Napoleon's paper work. All of these would have meant warmth at least. Instead, the Russian was hiding amongst a clump of snow-laden trees, staking-out the house of a known THRUSH head. He usually didn't allow the cold to bother him, but he'd remembered too late that his partner had borrowed his gloves. His hands were pushed deep into his pockets, but it didn't ease the gnawing pain in his frozen digits. Pulling one hand out, he peered at it, and briefly wondered which shade of blue that was exactly. He finally settled on powder blue, before plunging it back into the slightly warmer recesses of his coat. It didn't help that it was getting colder as darkness began to fall, and a chilling fog was starting to form.

Illya had been watching the house for two hours. A bigwig from Central was supposedly on his way, but there had been no sign of him yet. The Russian shivered, and then admonished himself for becoming soft, deciding instead to curse his partner for not returning his gloves. An insistent beeping from his communicator pulled him from his thoughts. Delving into his breast pocket, Illya could barely feel the pen-like device. Assembling it with numb fingers proved impossible. It slipped from his grip, and into the snow at his feet.

"Chyort!" He hissed, stooping down to retrieve it.

The sound of a pistol being cocked froze him in that position. Twisting his head, Illya saw Miles Manning, the owner of the house. He had two goons with him.

"Please straighten yourself up, Mr Kuryakin," Manning told him, gesturing with his pistol. "You'll catch your death out here. Why don't you come in where it's warm, and catch it there instead. You're just in time for my annual Christmas party, and I think you'll make the perfect gift for my special guest."

*****************************************************************

After the fourth time of trying to contact Illya, Napoleon Solo realised his plans for the evening were going out of the window. His partner was only meant to observe the house and report back on which member of THRUSH central was arriving. Once the name was known, a different set of agents would take over the assignment. Solo briefly entertained the thought that it might be simple equipment failure. As much as he hoped that was the case, he had to treat is as something suspicious.

"Call Slate and Dancer and ask them to meet me in Mr Waverly's office," he told Mary, who was manning the communications desk. "And keep trying Illya."

*****************************************************************

Illya had been held captive on many occasions, but this time he didn't actually mind so much. Okay, so he was chained to a wall, and was gagged, but he was finally warm. He also knew that rescue would probably be on the way, given that he hadn't been able to answer is communicator. What was really causing the Russian concern was where he had been chained.

It was a large, opulent dining room, which had been tastefully dressed for Christmas. A table for 12 was laid out for the coming feast, and milling around it were a few of the higher ranking members of THRUSH. Illya had been fastened to the wall, with his hands above him, at one end of the table; something which caused him to wonder why anyone would have shackles there in the first place. He was well known to everyone present and as such had to put up with their constant smug remarks, and occasional slaps to the face. Still, he wasn't afraid. The Russian had been in worse situations, and he was sure help would be on the way. The door at the far end of the room opened, and Miles Manning entered. He was followed by a man Illya knew of very well.

Sylvester Kingston was the current second-in-command for the whole of the THRUSH North American Section. He instantly recognised the helpless agent.

"Miles, my dear chap," he enthused. "When you said you had a Christmas gift for me, I couldn't have imagined it would be something this exciting."

It was only now that Illya began to feel apprehensive. He'd never come face to face with Kingston before, but he'd seen the results of his information extraction techniques. The man never dirtied his own hands with anything so base a torture, but was happy to give detailed instructions while someone else did it for him. He stood in front of the bound Russian and smiled warmly.

"How wonderful to finally meet you, Mr Kuryakin," Kingston said, almost congenially. "Your reputation is quite legendary amongst our ranks. I shall look forward to finding out how accurate the stories are."

The gag meant Illya couldn't reply, so he settled for an eye roll.

"Now, now young man, there's no need for that sort of behaviour."

********************************************************************************

Napoleon, Mark, and April approached the house which Illya had been watching. The fog was thick and the snow was heavy, so they could just about make out the glowing windows of the building. The three agents darted behind the trees as a figure emerged from the gloom. They kept out of sight until he had gone, allowing Mark time to notice the communicator half buried in the snow. He showed it to Napoleon, before shoving it into his pocket.

"I think it's probably safe to say Illya is in there," he said, indicating the house with his head.

"What's the plan?" April asked, trying not to think of what might be happening to her friend. "There are probably a lot of THRUSH in there."

"April, you are going in through a downstairs window near the front of the house," Napoleon told her. "Mark and I will go in through the back then split up once inside. Make sure your weapons are silenced so as not to disturb anyone if we have to remove obstacles. Use sleep darts. I would imagine that everyone important will be gathered in one place. If you come across a large group, hit them with a gas grenade."

"Won't that affect Illya too?" Mark queried.

"Yes," Solo replied, "but we need to take out a lot of people quickly. Once we've contained the situation, the back-up team will move in to mop up."

***************************************************************************

Illya was in pain. Part of him thought he should probably feel honoured that Sylvester Kingston was torturing him personally. One small mercy was that he had been moved from the dining room, to the much less opulent basement, so his interrogation was only being witnessed by Kingston, Manning and two guards.

He had been shackled to a steel chair, which was bolted to the floor, and he had been stripped from the waist up. It turned out that Manning had made himself a very well equipped interrogation room and Kingston was behaving like kid in a candy store.

"I have never really been a Christmas sort of person," he happily told Illya, between questions. "But Santa Claus has been very good to me this year. Did you have any plans for tomorrow?"

Kuryakin said nothing. The madman had asked him every question imaginable about U.N.C.L.E., but he hadn't given any sort answer to any of them. The only sounds he made were in response to the pain being inflicted. Kingston was currently favouring a modified cattle prod. It was shorter than a standard one, but packed a harder punch.

"So, Kuryakin, are you going to tell me anything I want to know, or do I move on to the more exciting toys?"

Once again, the Russian stayed silent. He stared straight ahead of him, refusing to make eye contact. Kingston pressed the cattle prod into Illya's stomach, eliciting from him a harsh scream. From a nearby corridor, April heard the scream and made her way towards it.

*******************************************************************************

Mark had made it to the dining room, only having to subdue one guard. He cracked the door open a little and saw the select gathering within. Lobbing in his grenade, he held the door closed in case any of them tried to escape the sleeping gas. After waiting the requisite time for the gas to dissipate, Mark entered the room. He drew his weapon, just in case anyone hadn't succumbed.

Napoleon, who had toured the upper floor and taken down four guards, joined Mark and nodded approvingly.

"There are some important people in here," he commented. "Illya isn't upstairs, or on this floor. He must be in the basement."

The two men quickly found the staircase and caught up with April, who was listening at a door.

"He's being tortured," she whispered them. "I was about to throw a grenade in, but I think it will be better if we dart them all."

Napoleon agreed and pressed his ear to the door. Their timing needed to perfect.

Inside the room, Kingston was growing bored. It seemed the stories of Kuryakin's tenacity were true.

"I would advise to open up, young man," he snarled at Illya. "The pain will stop if you do. All you have to do is ask, and it shall be given."

The Russian was tired, barely able to hold his head up anymore. Despite this, he managed to garner enough strength to spit into his tormentor's face. It earned him a hard slap, which drove him into unconsciousness.

"You will pay for that!"

Before Kingston could do anything, the door burst open. He had very little time to realise what was happening, as sleep took him.

**********************************************************************

Illya knew that when he opened his eyes, he would be greeted by the white walls of medical. It came as quite a surprise to find that he was actually in Napoleon's guest room. He pushed the blankets aside and attempted to get out of bed. He wasn't injured as such, but he was very weak. Unable to stand up unaided, he fell messily to the floor. Within seconds the bedroom door open and Napoleon rushed it. He helped his partner back into bed.

"It's about time you woke up."

"Why am I not in medical?"

"You were after we retrieved you," Solo explained. "But following the debriefing with Waverly, I decided to give medical a Christmas present. The last thing they needed on Christmas Day is a grumpy Russian. Speaking of which. . . "

Napoleon darted out of the room, and returned quickly with a gift wrapped package.

"Please tell me that isn't for me," Illya stated, pointing at the package. "I've asked you not to. I've haven't got you anything."

"Yes, it is for you and yes, I know you haven't. I don't buy gifts in order to receive them. Just open it."

"What is happening with the large THRUSH haul you do doubt bagged yourself?"

"Put it this way, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied, while urging Illya to unwrap his present. "We are going to have a lot of work to do in the next few weeks. We took quite a few influential members of the hierarchy. It also means we'll have to be on high alert for their inevitable retribution."

Finally, Illya tore the wrapping from his gift, and smiled broadly.

"How did you know?" he asked, holding up the bottle of Vodka.


	3. It's Warm Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Christmas fluff.

With his head down, against the driving snow, Illya trudged back to his apartment building. There had been a brief respite in the blizzard, so he had taken the opportunity to pop out to the local grocery store for a few essentials. Unfortunately, half the neighbourhood had had the same idea, so it had taken him over an hour. By that time, the blizzard had returned. Having his head down meant he couldn't see where he was going, and because of this, he walked headlong into someone coming the other way. The other person fell back and landed in the snow.

"Miss Hislop!" Illya exclaimed, recognising her from U.N.C.L.E.'s communications section. "I'm terribly sorry."

"Don't worry, Mr Kuryakin," she assured him, as he helped her up. "I couldn't really see where I was going either. Do you live around here?"

"Just here," he told her, pointing to his building. "Do you?"

"No. I was on the subway, but there was a breakdown. My apartment is only about another two miles away."

Despite it going against his every instinct to keep work and home separate, Illya invited her up to his apartment. She was clearly freezing, and walking another two miles in the blizzard would no doubt be detrimental to her health.

"I couldn't do that, Mr Kuryakin," she protested. "It isn't that far."

"Nonsense, Miss Hislop, I insist," he said, as he beckoned her towards the building

Sylvie weighed her options. She was at the point where she could barely feel her extremities, and heat was within reach.

"Thank you," she accepted, with obvious relief. "I wasn't enjoying fighting my way through this snow. And please, call me Sylvie."

"Only if you call me Illya."

Sylvie didn't know what to expect of Illya's apartment, but what she found wasn't it. The rumours around HQ had it that the Russian owned barely anything. They couldn't have been more wrong. The apartment was very well furnished and it was even decorated for Christmas. Dumping his groceries on the dining table, Illya helped Sylvie out of her coat.

"Would you like a shower to warm up?" he offered. "I'm sure I could find you a pair of sweatpants and a sweater."

******************************************************************

After a wonderfully warm shower, Sylvie dried off and dressed in the grey sweatpants and black turtleneck Illya had left for her. They were a little big for her, but thanks to his small stature, they weren't too bad. She couldn't wrap her head around being in the Russian's apartment and his clothes. At the office he was friendly and polite enough, but being here felt like treading on sacred ground. As far as she knew, none of the girls at work had been here and they were never going to believe her.

Leaving the bedroom, Sylvie was met with the aroma of cooking. She found Illya in the kitchen, stirring a pot of what looked like pasta sauce. The normality of the scene seemed incongruous to the dangerous life she knew he led. Turning, as he heard her come in, Illya couldn't help but smile at how attractive Sylvie looked. Her hair was still wet, and his clothes didn't fit her, but she looked wonderfully natural.

"I don't want to worry you, but the snow is getting heavier," he told her. "You may have to stay the night."

As much as the idea thrilled her, Sylvie explained she would be fine to get home. The Russian, of course, wouldn't hear of it. The temperature outside was plummeting, and his apartment was warm and comfortable.

"I've got dinner cooking, so why don't you decide after we've eaten. At the very least, it'll warm you up inside."

"I can't argue with that," Sylvie replied, with a smile.

Once the meal was over, Illya once again asked Sylvie to stay over. Outside, the snow showed no sign of abating, and she was now warm and content. Against expectations, Sylvie had found herself very comfortable in the agent's company. For his part, Illya was surprised to find he was enjoying the young woman's company. He'd never really spoken to her before, other than about official business, and was pleased to find she was funny and intelligent.

"I really can't stay," Sylvie told him, trying to ignore how much Illya's eyes sparkled when he smiled. "It's getting late."

"Exactly," he said. "It's dark and cold, and there's no visibility. You may have my bed, and I will take the sofa. I promise that your honour shall remain."

Sylvie almost snorted. She wasn't as promiscuous as some of her colleagues, but her honour was still long gone.

"Very well," she finally conceded. "I'll stay on one condition."

"Which is?"

"You tell me about Russia. Not the political, scary version that we're sold here, but the real Russia."

"It's a deal,"

***************************************************************************

Four hours later, Sylvie was curled up on the sofa, drinking her third glass of vodka, and enjoying the soft jazz which was playing. Illya was cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the armchair. Sylvie listened to Illya's stories about Russian culture, music, literature and history. She did notice that he very carefully steered away from his personal history, but she didn't ask him about it either. She was aware that few people knew of his past. Truth be told, all the other things he talked of held her fascinated attention. She even began to imagine that, one day, she would get the chance to visit the places he was telling her about. The thing that really surprised Sylvie was just how excited Illya was getting, as he spoke of his homeland. He was nothing like the cool, reserved 'Ice Prince' she knew from headquarters. This laughing, animated version of him was unbelievably attractive, and Sylvie found herself hoping that something might happen between them. She glanced up at the clock.

"Oh my, look at the time," she stated. "It's time I headed to bed. Are you sure you don't want me to take the sofa?"

"I'm certain, Sylvie. I've slept in places a lot less comfortable."

Illya pulled himself to his feet and wished Sylvie a goodnight. As she headed to the bedroom, he wondered if his guest would be open to a little bed sharing. When he'd bumped into her, his intentions had been entirely chivalrous, but now his gentlemanly side was in retreat. He could almost hear Napoleon in his head, telling him to just go ahead and make a move, but Illya wasn't like his self-assured partner. Before he could make his mind up what to do, the door closed and ended the internal debate.

He turned the music off and began to clear up the debris from dinner. Illya was so engrossed in his task, he almost failed to notice Sylvie re-emerge, wearing only his bathrobe.

"For the record, Illya," she purred. "This bed will be much warmer with two people in it."

"I don't believe in Santa Claus," he replied, as he followed her into his bedroom. "But I think I could start to."


	4. Prayers For a Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve is the time to ask for a miracle.

Unlike the rest of building, the walls of the little chapel in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters were clad in wood. Spaced evenly around the walls were several stained glass panels, in lieu of actual windows. The room had started its life as a purely Christian place, but as with any international organisation, space had been given for worshippers of other faiths. For the main, though, it was still predominantly Christian.

Alexander Waverly rarely entered the chapel, preferring to keep his prayers between himself and God. Once a year, however, he made an exception. Every Christmas Eve, the Old Man made a special visit to thank the Lord for another year of relative successes and ask for the same next year. It was also a chance to pray for those agents who would not be home for Christmas. They'd been 'lucky' this year. Only three had been lost, which was a staggeringly small number. Then there were those on assignment. The Christmas period tended to be quieter, but there were still on-going assignments.

Lighting a prayer candle, Waverly was surprised, and heartened, to see many more were already burning. He sat down on the front pew and looked up at the large cross. He had another prayer this year, one which temporarily superseded any wishes for a peace. Mr Waverly always asserted that all agents were expendable, but there were some who had found a place in his supposedly closed heart. Those agents had proved themselves in many ways, and had made themselves irreplaceable. One such agent was currently lying in a coma following his rescue from a particularly sadistic THRUSH torturer, twenty-four hours previously.

The Old Man had lost count of the number of times the young Russian had ended up in medical. The cost of treating his numerous injuries was a source of constant battle between Waverly and Accounting. The bean counters had even asked if he could rein Kuryakin's recklessness in. They accept that injury was an occupational hazard, but this one agent seemed to excel at it. Mr Waverly had tried to explain that Illya Kuryakin was a man who was more than willing to sacrifice himself for the cause; that he wasn't, in any way, reckless. The results of his, and Mr Solo's, efforts far outweighed what they cost in hospital treatment. As far as Alexander Waverly was concerned, it was a small price to pay.

He wondered what it was that made Illya so willing to risk everything to preserve peace, then admonished himself. The answer was so obvious when you thought about. If you'd witnessed your entire existence being torn apart by evil, you took revenge in one of two ways. You either lost yourself to hatred, and took it out on the whole world, or you dedicated yourself to eradicating evil. Thinking about the skills his Russian agent possessed, the world was lucky he'd chosen the right direction.

U.N.C.L.E.'s chaplain came in and frowned at the sight of Mr Waverly. He was aware the Old Man was always there on Christmas Eve, but he also knew about Mr Kuryakin. Sitting in the pew behind Waverly, he offered up a prayer, before placing a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"I heard Mr Kuryakin could wake up in the next five minutes, or he could never wake up again. Christmas Eve is a time for miracles, Mr Waverly. I know the Almighty receives more prayers than usual on this night, but I'm certain he can spare a moment for a man as remarkable as Illya. You just have to knock and the door will be opened."

"Matthew 7:7," Waverly stated, as he stood up. "Thank you, Chaplain. Merry Christmas."

******************************************************************

Napoleon Solo was not sitting in his customary place by Illya's bedside, but he was in the room. He was, instead, looking out of the window. Waverly's office and the patient rooms in medical were the only ones with real windows in them. Solo looked up at the billions of stars in the clear night sky, and offered up his own, fairly angry, prayer.

"I'm not going to make any silly promises such as 'if you let him live, I'll lead a better life', because that kind of thing is worthless. I'm just going to ask you to bring him home. Illya is too good a man for the world to lose now. He is important to a great many people. I know that's true of many people, but how many are alive thanks to him? If you take him, tonight of all nights, I will never forgive you."

"You shouldn't talk to God in that manner, Mr Solo," commented Mr Waverly, as he entered the room.

"I know," Napoleon conceded. "I just wonder why He seems to have it in for Illya."

"There is no need to say prayers on my behalf," said a tired voice from the bed.

"Hey, Tovarisch," Solo exclaimed, delight at the sound. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"

"I'm a spy, it's what I do."

"You gave us quite a scare this time Mr Kuryakin." Waverly gently scolded. "I shall fetch doctor."

As he left, the Old Man whispered a silent thank you to the heavens.

"I think he was worried about you," said Napoleon, with surprise in his voice.

"Can you blame him?" Illya replied, his voice no more than a whisper. "I am his best agent."

"Second best, I think you'll find, chum," Solo asserted. "I'm glad you woke up. Now I don't have to cancel my date tomorrow night with Jeanette."

The look which Illya shot at his partner would have wilted a lesser man. Napoleon simply laughed.

"I'm joking," he told the sulky Russian. "If you're up to eating tomorrow, you won't want what the laughingly call a 'turkey dinner' from the commissary. I'll pick something up from a restaurant and bring it in."

"Thank you, my friend. Merry Christmas."

"And to you Tovarisch."


	5. Start the New Year With a Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's almost midnight on New Year's Eve and Illya must try and prevent Napoleon from going out with a bang.

Napoleon Solo was beyond exhausted, yet he continued his efforts to escape from his bonds. He's been left, shackled to a chair, for almost twelve hours and had spent the entire time trying to free himself. Ordinarily, the agent wouldn't be quite so frantic, but the large clock in front of him urged him on. The hands of the clock steadily ticked towards midnight, and to the end of 1965. In twenty minutes, when the time reached twelve, the red dynamite sticks dotted around the room would also bring about the end of Napoleon Solo.

********************************************************

Illya Kuryakin glanced at his watch as he sped towards his destination. He only had twenty minutes to rescue his partner from a very nasty fate. It had taken the Russian far too long to ascertain Napoleon's whereabouts from the THRUSH who had taken him. Mr Waverly had disapproved slightly of Illya's method to gain the information, but had allowed him to proceed; keeping careful watch that the young man didn't go too far.

By the time he reached Napoleon's location there was only ten minutes left, and it only took a matter of seconds to realise that it probably wasn't enough. There were at least twelve locks holding Solo in place, the chair was screwed to the floor, and each of the ten sticks of dynamite its own detonator. The point where all the cables joined the clock was encased in a steel box, which had six locks on it.

"Hello, Tovarisch," Napoleon greeted his partner, in a ridiculously calm tone of voice.

"Good evening, Napoleon," the Russian replied, as he searched for a solution. "Soon have you out of here."

"I hope so. Daphne is never going to forgive me for not being there to kiss her at midnight."

"There isn't time to free you," Illya murmured, as though he were simply thinking out loud. "I'm going to try and unscrew the chair and drag you out."

There were four screws in all; one at each leg. Using his knife, he swiftly undid them. A quick look at the clock told him there were five minutes left. Grunting with the effort, and wincing at the sound of steel scraping against concrete, Illya dragged Napoleon from the room. Not knowing how powerful the explosion was going to be, he had to try and get as far away from it as possible in the time.

"Someone has been over-indulging over the holiday period," Kuryakin gasped.

"Well if you don't hurry, I'll be losing a lot of weight very soon."

Both men knew that the words meant nothing. They were just a means of keeping each other distracted. At the end of the corridor was the elevator. Illya was well aware of how stupid it was to use an elevator in a building which was about to explode, but he had to get to the ground floor, and quickly. It was only two floors down, and he still had three minutes.

Once on the ground floor, the Russian was grateful to see a fire exit and headed straight for it. It lead him out to an empty parking lot at the rear of the building. Pushing Napoleon against the wall, Illya leaned over him to protect him from any debris which may come their way. His expert eye had told him the explosion was more likely to burst from the front of the building, but you couldn't be too careful. Looking at his watch, Illya silently counted down the last ten seconds.

The blast, when it came, wasn't as powerful as expected; though if Napoleon had been in the room he would most certainly have died. The pyromaniac in Illya's soul was actually quite disappointed in the lacklustre explosion.

"Thank you Tovarisch," Napoleon finally said, over the noise of the fireworks now going off across the city. "We're both going to have to work on these just-in-the-nick-of-time rescues."

Illya, however, wasn't listening. He was captivated by the multi-coloured bursts which were lighting up the night sky. Every one of them caused his heart to soar with excitement, and he grinned like a child. Napoleon desperately wanted to be free of the chair, but the expression of wonder on his partners face was enough to make him wait. Everyone assumed that Illya had lost the innocence of childhood very early, but they were wrong. He'd merely packed it away and, every so often, it was allowed to show.

"Happy New Year, moy brat," Napoleon said to him softly; knowing full well that the Russian still wasn't listening.


End file.
